adventures in dysthymia

Friday, June 02, 2017

Naught, a poem

Naught

We are the glass that one day shatters,
the flame that burns to ash and scatters,
with no regret, for nothing matters.

The little mouse’s midnight patters
that, drowsy, we a moment hark
will fade forgotten in the dark.

All leave naught behind to mark
the passage; the igniting spark
dims and dies as we burn yet.

Consume, create, die, beget —
the sun of dawn must also set;
none of it matters — have no regret.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

Not my best, certainly, and something of a cliche; intended more as an exercise in form.

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